


Or Something

by withcoffeespoons



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: College, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late night cramming had kind of been Foggy’s specialty in undergrad. Not so much anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or Something

Late night cramming had kind of been Foggy’s specialty in undergrad. Not so much anymore.

Matt teased him about getting old when he started nodding off around 2 a.m. on the regular. “Soon you’re gonna be old and gray, incontinent and balding–”

“Whoa, whoa, I’m not the one with a receding hairline before his 30th birthday.”

“Harsh.”

Foggy laughed. “Sorry, buddy, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the curve of Matt’s brow, into his hairline. “And I’m seeing a lot of forehead here.”

Matt swatted half-heartedly at Foggy’s hand, their fingers brushing in a strange mimicry of intimacy. “Don’t be such a child,” he said, laughter in his voice.

It only spurred Foggy on. “What, should I get off your lawn, too?” he teased.

Matt’s laughter slid into a sigh. “Maybe we’re both getting old.”

“At this point, that just means switching from energy drinks to espresso macchiatos or something.”

“Or something.”

“Hey, it’s practically my life’s mission to keep you young at heart.”

“Your life’s mission?”

“The whole damn thing,” Foggy said proudly.

“Oh. Um.” Matt stuttered, searching for words he didn’t have.

Foggy’s philosophy was–if you plowed through the awkwardness with enough momentum, it would dissipate entirely. “You’re stuck with me, pal.”

Matt made a soft, considering sound in the back of his throat. His gaze landed somewhere over Foggy’s right shoulder, but he stared unblinkingly toward him as though he could measure him up somehow. “There are worse things.”

“Yes, there are,” Foggy said solemnly. “Now come on, get over here and quiz me again.”

Foggy woke up, too warm, the glossy pages of his textbook stuck to his cheek. He shoved the book to the floor. It was a $120 doorstop in two more weeks anyway, like the golden carriage turning back into a pumpkin.

The sound it made was obscenely loud, like any good not-half-asleep person would have figured three seconds earlier, and Foggy’s blanket jumped.

Matt. It was Matt. Foggy’s blanket was Matt.

“Shit,” Matt slurred.

Foggy’s laugh sounded like it was being dragged across sandpaper.

“I should–” Matt shifted, pulling away.

In his definitely-not-awake state, Foggy knew only two things: one, that he needed to go back to sleep immediately, and two, that Matt needed to stay Right There.

“Nope,” he mumbled into his pillow–actually a pillow this time, or close enough. It might have been a hoodie.

“My bed’s–”

“S’fine.” Matt needed to stop speaking and go back to sleep right now because it was downright distracting, the way Foggy could  _feel_ , Matt’s chest to his back, how sleep coated his voice.

“Fine, but gimme your blanket,” Matt demanded. It wasn’t just any blanket; it was the ultra-soft, cushy blanket Foggy’s mom had sent him a month into his first semester. It never left Foggy’s bed, except when he was sick. It was the best piece of home he owned, and Matt was one of–actually, he was the only other person Foggy trusted with the blanket.

It took a lot of shifting, and he lost a study sheet or two in the process, the sound of crinkled, ripping paper under Foggy’s dramatics. It was worth the effort for the small, satisfied sound Matt made as he wrapped himself into a burrito. “Smells like you,” he said, and Foggy would have earmarked that comment for teasing the next day if he weren’t so warmly pleased.


End file.
